


Cadenza

by FancyFish



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: 1920s, F/M, Fluff, Gotham Memoirs, New York City, Semi-Slow Burn, Taking down the mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyFish/pseuds/FancyFish
Summary: Elizabeth Colvin pursues music instead of journalism. Somehow things still turn out the way they're supposed to."In music, a cadenza (from Italian: cadenza [kaˈdɛntsa], meaning cadence) is, generically, an improvised ornamental passage played or sung by a soloist, usually in a "free" rhythmic style."
Relationships: Elizabeth Colvin/Vittorio Puzo
Comments: 15
Kudos: 130





	1. One

It's Sunday, and on Sunday the Colvins go to church.

And then, apparently, to mental hospitals. 

Elizabeth eyes the huge austere building, the forbidding iron gates, with some trepidation. She's still not quite sure how offering to help Father Russo 'minister to the fold' has led her here, but she figures God appreciates the effort anyways. 

She checks the slip of paper again and informs the guard she's here to visit a Ms. Dorothy Farrager; when the gates creak open an icy shudder trickles down her spine. It certainly doesn't seem like a healing place, but perhaps the inside is better?

It's not. 

_ We treat our animals better than this!  _ Elizabeth snarls to herself as a young nurse leads her to Block A. The inside is bare and white and cold; the doors to the patients' rooms have only tiny windows to connect them to the outside world, and there is a palpable aura of despair that clings to every grimy surface and permeates the very air. A low cry wails from one of the cells; the nurse fixes Elizabeth with a sickly-sweet  _ ever-so-sorry _ smile, knocks harshly on the door and it subsides with a whimper. 

They manage to arrive at room 32A before she has much more time to stew in righteous disgust.

"She doesn't respond much to anything, just sits there, really. You could smack her and she might not even look at you. When you're done, just call for one of us and we'll check you out," the nurse announces, and Elizabeth gives her a short nod. 

Dorothy Farrager was a faithful member of Father Russo's flock until she started losing her memory and was deposited at Metropolitan by her niece. She doesn't seem to know where she is - every so often her vacant gaze slides past Elizabeth to inspect her surroundings with a vague kind of bewilderment, before her eyes wander their way back to her face and blink in glazed surprise. A blessing, if ever she's seen one. Her room is devoid of everything but the meanest necessities, and Elizabeth gets the uncomfortable impression of a tomb whose occupant hasn't realized they're not yet dead. 

She clears her throat determinedly, picks up one of the limp, bony hands resting on the tattered blanket, and introduces herself, feeling somewhat silly. Dorothy's eyes brighten somewhat, or at least they don't drift as much, and Elizabeth takes heart, starts to chatter about Mama and Daddy's farm back in Goose Creek. 

She talks and talks, about the fields and the animals and her family (and wouldn't Mama pitch a holy fit, to see this place and the people it's supposed to help), until the same young nurse from earlier pokes her head around the door. 

"Goodness, aren't you finished yet?"

"No, thank you," she says stiffly. 

The nurse blinks. "Oh. Has she said anything, then?"

"No," Elizabeth responds through gritted teeth, fixing her with a thin smile as chilly as the room itself and patting Dorothy's hand soothingly, "but we're having a lovely chat nonetheless."

The woman appears even more mystified and eyes her carefully. "Well - visiting hours are nearly over, so wrap it up."

Elizabeth does, with a reluctance that surprises even her, and promises to visit again. Dorothy's eyes, dimmed again, slide back to the wall as she leaves, and tears (of anger or sadness or perhaps both) prickle uncomfortably in the corners of her eyes. 

The nurse begins to escort her back to the front desk, and suddenly a young woman in a worn, torn hospital gown lurches around the corner.

"Help! Help me, Miss! They're going to hurt me," she begs, and thin arms latch around Elizabeth with surprising strength. 

"Oh, honey," Elizabeth coos gently, instinct born from soothing generations of wounded and terrified animals. "What's wrong?"

"They're going to lock me up! I've been a good girl, why would they lock me up? So cold...so hungry..."

The nurse moves as if to pry off the terrified girl, who flinches away, and Elizabeth's tenuous hold on her tempers snaps.

"Don't you touch her," she hisses, wrapping her own arms around the patient. The nurse jerks, startled, and the girl presses closer, muttering about being good and can she please come home? Elizabeth pats her dishelveled hair softly.

"What's going on here?" demands a voice, and all three of them turn to see a tall, pale man striding powerfully down the hall. "Stella?"

He makes for an imposing figure, immaculately dressed with glittering dark eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut a man. Elizabeth flushes. 

"The visiting hours -" begins the nurse, but Stella brightens and peers out from the circle of Elizabeth's arms.

"Have you come to take me home, brother?"

He sighs, reaches out. "Sorry, Stella. You know I can't until things improve."

"I want to go home!" she cries, and she flings herself from Elizabeth and into his arms, sobbing. He pats her back, murmuring gently. 

It's clear that the man loves his sister, and Elizabeth's heart cracks. 

"Please," she blurts. "Please, if you have the means to do so, let her come home!"

Those coffee-dark eyes consider her over the weeping girl's shoulder. She feels small under his scrutiny and squares her shoulders, lifts her chin. Private family matters are not her business, but aren't they all one family in the Lord? If she submissively abandons another to continue rotting in this godforsaken place, it will eat at her soul as long as she lives.

"...Thank you," he says finally. "I'll consider your suggestion."

"Please do," Elizabeth mutters, and allows the nurse plucking at her sleeve to turn her around and finish ushering her out. 

She walks through the gates in a bit of a daze. Hopefully something she's done has mattered, left some residue of kindness in those halls, and she silently promises again to visit. Maybe next time she could even sing a little - she's always believed music has a certain power - maybe she could get some of her fellow cast members at the Opera Company or the congregation's choir to come with…

Her back pickles, and she turns self-consciously without breaking stride.

The tall man, Stella's brother, is closing the main doors behind him, casually glancing around the courtyard. Their eyes meet, and he inclines his head in a formal nod before sliding gracefully into a sleek, expensive black car. 

She waves back, hurries on to bus stop, and barely steps aboard before the grumbling driver slams the doors closed. And if her thoughts feature Hospital Man along with potential programs for charity concerts and Dorothy and Stella, well, that's no one's business but her own.


	2. Two

Elizabeth likes the city, loves the theater, but sometimes a body born and raised under open Kentucky skies for 20 years just needs a good wander and green, growing things. 

The cast is in high spirits and performs well; rehearsal ends early, praise the Lord, and Elizabeth abandons grandeur and opulence as quickly as she can shed her costume. She ducks out the back and trots humming down the alley, ballads and arias and serenades bouncing off her skull. (And if she twirls a bit before entering the main road, well, that's no one's business but her own.)

The nearest park is only a few blocks away and she makes short work of the distance. It's a small, secluded thing, not much more than a grassy courtyard with carefully-sculpted shrubs and trees - about as similar to Goose Creek, Kentucky as a bird is to a fish - but when she rubs her fingers along the rough bark of a sturdy oak she feels her soul settle. Elizabeth casually eyes the only other inhabitants, two men chatting on a park bench across the way, and once she's sure they've dismissed her presence she quickly ducks through a few bushes to settle herself on the ground against the strong trunk of the oak. 

The sky is already darkening, so once New York's hurried undercurrent settles into a tolerable background buzz she starts to crawl out of her little refuge. 

A man's voice starts to rise and Elizabeth freezes mid-crouch. She'd quite like to catch the next bus, thank you, but she'd also prefer to avoid attracting attention - hiding in bushes doesn't scream 'upstanding citizen', and one of those men is already upset about something. 

Edging forward cautiously, she peeks through the branches. One man, squat with a narrow mustache, is standing up, casually stamping out a cigarette; his companion is clenching a hat in shaking hands, voice going shrill again with panic. 

"Please, Johnny, please -" 

Johnny shrugs. "Sorry, Frank." 

And within the time it takes to draw a breath, the man named Johnny takes a silenced gun out of his coat and shoots the man named Frank. 

His head snaps backward and blood begins trickling through a perfect dark hole over suddenly blank eyes. Elizabeth jerks, snapping twigs under her knees, screaming soundlessly into her hands. 

Johnny tilts his head, turns slightly with narrowed eyes. Elizabeth desperately projects the idea of a startled alleycat and clenches her hands tighter over her mouth. 

The man considers the bushes in silence, cold and hard as stone, then stows the gun back under his jacket and bends to pick up Frank's hat from where it had fallen from nerveless fingers. Brushing off with gloved hands, he carefully sets it back on Frank's head, just so. A man who simply fell asleep in the park after a hard day's work. 

Sticking his hands in his coat, Johnny turns on his heel and heads back toward the road. 

Elizabeth waits for a long, long count of 30 before taking a deep, gasping inhale, scrubbing at her eyes with trembling hands. She's no stranger to death, a country farm girl from backwoods Kentucky, but the callous, everyday manner in which another human being has committed cold-blooded murder is the most sickening thing she's ever seen. 

She doesn't dare stay here, in this empty park with a dead man, but it takes several long minutes before she can force herself to leave her shelter. She brushes off her trousers, fixes her hat, pats down her hair to the looped memory of terrified pleading, the muffled thud of a bullet striking home, and cold eyes. 

"Murderers wouldn't stick around the scene of their own crime," Elizabeth whispers hoarsely to herself. 

She wishes she sounded more convincing.

Fixing what she hopes is a pleasant, polite expression on her face, she clutches her bag with numb fingers and walks to the main street, finding the smooth wooden beads of Mama's rosary in her pocket and twining them tightly around her hand. She whispers a few prayers for poor Frank as she slips quietly - unobtrusively - behind a gaggle of women, for once deeply grateful for her (lack of) height. 

Out here on the street there are horns blaring, engines rumbling, the buzz of multitudes of people talking and going about their business. The sudden return of normality is surreal; she feels safer but no less cold.

The sense of security lasts until the next storefront, where a squat man with a thin mustache is leaning against a wall. Yawning, he pulls a silver pocket watch out of his coat, the coat that also holds a gun, and checks the time, just a simple man waiting for his girl to finish shopping. He returns to casually studying the passersby, and Elizabeth's steps stutter.

Abruptly going the other direction just shouts suspicious, she knows, and it's too late anyway - the minuscule break in rhythm draws his attention right to her. A dark smile curls around his lips as he gives her a polite nod; those icy, unblinking eyes don't change a lick. 

She clasps her rosary tighter, the points of cross digging into her palm as her frantic prayers take on a more personal nature. Heart in her throat, Elizabeth just blinks blankly at him and allows her gaze to drift away, but she still catches him shaking his head in her peripheral as she passes and she knows  _ he  _ knows. Despite the surrounding witnesses, the next several steps are agonizing as she waits for a bullet in her back. 

There's no bullet, but in the side mirror of a parked car she sees him following, and she knows that death is still coming, just less immediately. 

It's getting harder to think clearly through the rising haze of terror, and she has no clue what to do anyways, so she just - walks. And walks. 

She fancies she can distinguish measured footfalls, steadily creeping closer.

At this point night has well and truly fallen, and the crowds, such as they were, are thinning as people get where they're going - most people, after all, don't just aimlessly wander New York after hours, particularly not young, small, single women. 

Elizabeth fully realizes that 'just walking' really was a terrible choice as she turns a corner and finds herself facing an unlit, deserted stretch of warehouses. Stomach plunging, she plasters herself against the wall, and waits for the footsteps that she actually can hear now, curling her fingers into a proper fist just like Daddy taught her. She's no pushover, no siree, and she'll at least break his nose before he snuffs her out. 

The man follows his shadow around the corner, and Elizabeth smashes her fist into his ugly smirking face with all the force she can muster.

She's short, but so is he, and she's been milking cows and hauling hay from the time she could walk (well, except these past couple years, but she wagers she's still got more muscle than most of these city folk). His nose collapses under her hand with a crunch, and the hand reaching under his coat springs to his face with a surprised, pained howl as he staggers back. 

Elizabeth scrambles back out of reach and launches herself down the street, whipping around the nearest corner and into a narrow alley, hearing him shout muffled swears behind her. 

"Oh Lord," she gasps, tears springing to her eyes, because there's an actual light at the end of the tunnel, a tall, finely-dressed man lighting a cigar under a streetlight. 

She hears a stomach-twisting  _ PHUT  _ behind her as Johnny fires his silenced gun, but a shattered nose makes the eyes water enough to apparently throw off one's aim, because she reaches her metaphorical savior without a bloom of debilitating pain or sudden blackness. 

Elizabeth practically throws herself into him; the man stumbles, dropping his cigar but catching her shoulders, keeping them both upright. 

"Please," she pants, clutching his sleeves and staring down the darkness of the alley beyond the streetlight. "Murder - stalked - help!" 

The man twists to eye the shadows too. There's a pregnant pause, then a few muttered curses and a fading scuffling as Johnny retreats, and the night is still again. 

Elizabeth slumps, feeling suddenly hollow and too drained even for tears (those will come later, she's sure). "Oh, thank you," she breathes shakily. "Thank you…"

"No trouble," the man assures smoothly, and Elizabeth's eyes jerk up. She couldn't forget that voice if she tried.

_ Hospital Man! _

"Hello," she blurts, then flushes. 

An eyebrow raises and his lips twitch. "Hello."

Abruptly realizing she's still gripping his coat and huddling rather close to his chest, Elizabeth forces her fingers to release and steps back, attempting to smooth down the wrinkles. "Do excuse me," she mutters. 

He lets her shoulders go, only to carefully grasp her right hand and inspect her already-bruising, blood-stained knuckles. "Are you sure you're alright, Miss Colvin?"

"Colvin," she supplies hurriedly, "Elizabeth Colvin. And yes, physically, I'm - well,  _ mostly _ unharmed - but  _ he's  _ not," she ends, snarling with a savage sort of triumph. 

"...Vittorio Puzo," says Vittorio Puzo, who releases her hand and is studying her with renewed interest - respect, perhaps, but she doesn't dare go farther than that. "Well met, Miss Colvin. I'll be sure to avoid getting on your - bad side." 

She huffs a tired laugh, re-shoulders her bag. "And don't you forget it."

There's a short screech of brakes - Elizabeth flinches - and a black car pulls to the curb, glossy paint shimmering under the streetlight. Mister Puzo steadies her again, and if she leans ever so slightly into his solid (safe) warmth, well, who's to say? 

"May I send you home?" he inquires politely. "You've been through quite a harrowing experience." 

Getting into the cars of strange men doesn't sound like a very smart way to enjoy her newfound lease on life (no matter how nice the strange men may be), but she is hopelessly lost and bone-deep exhausted and yes, she has been through a harrowing experience and would quite like a ride home...

She eyes him warily and Mister Puzo gives her a sardonic smile. "I'm sure your feet are tired. And if I were going to murder you, I would have just let  _ him _ do it."

That really oughtn't be as comforting as it is, but Elizabeth nods, allows him to open the door and help her in. The driver studiously avoids interacting with her at all beyond asking her address; she tells him her crossroads and once Mister Puzo is situated he takes quickly to the road.

"Forgive me for asking," says Mister Puzo quietly, "but what did you mean by 'murder'?" 

"Oh," she stalls, "I - witnessed one." Before he can press for details, she clarifies, "I was at the little greenspace down 27th and there were two men on the bench in the back. They were just - just talking, then one - Frank - gets nervous, and the other, Johnny, gets up and - shoots him." She stares him square in his coffee-dark eyes, daring him to comment on the quiver in her voice. 

He doesn't. "Did you notice anything about them?" 

The image of her would-be murderer is still clear as day. She wonders if it'll ever fade. "Johnny's my height, squat, with a thin mustache and small blue eyes and a little scar on his chin, here," she points to hers for reference, "and a long brown coat, red tie, and a gun with a silencer. Ooh, and his nose will be a bit worse for wear for a while now. Frank," she swallows. "He had dark hair, and a green tie, and he was clean-shaven...and he had a hat," she finishes lamely. She hadn't wanted to look at him very much. "He just left him there, on the bench..."

Mister Puzo nods calmly, contemplatively. "You're very astute, to notice so much in such a - tense situation. And where were you, to manage to escape so far from 27th?"

"I was hiding in the bushes," she muttered. Mister Puzo sounds like he's stifling a snort, but when she glances at him sharply his face is as gentlemanly distant as ever. "I have a spot I like to sit, out-of-sight, and he heard me, only he didn't catch me til I left the park and there were too many people to just - off me right there."

"Ah."

A thought occurs, and "What do I do?" Elizabeth asks in sudden desperation. "I can't very well tell the police I witnessed a murder hiding in the bushes, but if I leave an anonymous tip without saying so, that's almost more suspicious!"

Mister Puzo observes her thoughtfully, and she stews in increasingly awful scenarios of being arrested and charged for murder for an exceptionally long minute. "I'll take care of it," he suggests finally. "I can report this to the - relevant authorities, and you can avoid implementing yourself in homicide."

Elizabeth holds the massive wave of relief at bay, and presses awkwardly, "That's very kind of you, but - do you promise? Only, I don't want Frank to be sitting on that bench for ages, and I'd sleep much better with Johnny locked up..."

"You have my word," he says gravely, and Elizabeth feels the certainty of that simple statement settle into her bones - knows he means it as much as she knows her own name. "And your Mister Johnny won't be bothering you again, I'm sure. He's lost his window of opportunity. You're quite safe."

There's an odd tone to that statement she can't identify, but she has no more energy for mysterious men and their mysterious ways, and she lets her head fall back to rest on the luxurious leather seat. It's done, out of her hands, she no longer holds any obligation to stay involved in this sorry mess. 

Her eyelids flutter of their own accord, but she refuses to let them truly shut - she knows what she'll see, what she'll hear, if they close for real; current personal safety won't magically erase the nightmare. "How is Stella?" she remembers suddenly. 

Mister Puzo blinks at her, nonplussed, before flashing a smile with genuine warmth. "Stella is fine," he assures. "We'll be bringing her home soon."

"Truly? Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaims in heartfelt surprise, and a pressure on her heart releases. 

Despite her curiosity she doesn't pry further, and Mister Puzo offers no other information. The rest of the trip passes in a comfortable silence until a surprisingly gentle hand settles on her shoulder minutes later. "Your stop, Miss Colvin." 

He gallantly hands her out, and she pauses before continuing down to her apartment. 

"Thank you," she whispers fervently.

He's shaking his head before she's finished. "My morals would not allow anything less," he states. Nothing proud or vain about it, merely an irrefutable fact. 

"Fine," she shrugs, a brief smidgen of cheek surfacing. "No gratitude for you, then."

He blinks at her, surprised, and a half-smile starts to curl at his lips. "Much better. Oh yes, Miss Colvin - are you the Miss Colvin with the American Opera Company? I recall an article in the  _ Sun... _ "

The question is so ordinary, so separate from everything else that's happened tonight, that it takes a moment for it to register. "Er, what? Oh, yes, that's me - we're starting  _ Faust _ next week, I'm playing Marguerite…"

"I had wondered. I wish you luck, then, for your performances."

"And I will gladly take it."

Mister Puzo nods and gracefully slides back into the car. Elizabeth sends them off with a small wave and trudges to her far-too-expensive cubbyhole. 

And if she leaves on her lamp as she sobs into her pillow and fights images of bullet holes and blood with memories of steadying hands and half-smiles and coffee-dark eyes, well, that's no one's business but her own.


	3. Three

_ Faust _ is an astounding success, and Elizabeth ends Friday's performance with the exhausted, satisfied euphoria of a job well done. She winds her way through the backstage maze to her dressing room slowly, navigating congratulatory claps on the back and ecstatic hugs and returning praises with her own, singing her aria under her breath and swishing the thick skirts of Marguerite's costume. There's a meet-and-greet dinner party in thirty minutes, and she's got to change quickly. 

She's shimmying into her stockings when the cheerful buzz she can hear through the walls turns to fearful shouts and screams, pounding feet and slamming doors. Something is clearly wrong, and Elizabeth bites her lip, hesitating - does she stay put or try to evacuate…? 

She shoves down terror-filled memories of murderers and dark streets, slowly reaching for the doorknob to try and at least investigate the disturbance, when the door bursts open, smashing into the wall before a dark-haired and dark-suited man can catch the knob and shut it. Jerking backwards, her shriek of shock is abruptly cut off by fine leather gloves as the man lurches forward and claps a large hand over her mouth. 

Before she can bite the offending limb, she finds herself staring over long fingers into the (very close) coffee-dark eyes of Mister Puzo. 

"Hello," she blurts against his palm. 

"Shh," he hisses.

_ Excuse me?  _ Elizabeth's eyes narrow, and she peels his warm hand off her face before she  _ does  _ bite him. "Let me go," she snarls, "and I can hide you. I  _ assume  _ that's why you're breaking into women's dressing rooms?"

Wait - dressing room. She looks down, and Mister Puzo follows. 

"Avert your eyes!" she (quietly) squawks, shoving him away and diving for the robe hanging over her vanity chair. 

When she turns around, securely belting the sash around her waist and steadfastly ignoring the red creeping her neck, he's politely studying the array of stage makeup on the counter. There's pink on his ears but a wicked smirk on his mouth, and she propels him toward the heavy oak wardrobe in the corner with more force than necessary, cheeks burning 

She shoves him inside, growling unintelligibly, frantically arranging ruffles and lace and yards of slippery satin over and around his form, leaving one of the great doors open for the impression of innocence. 

There are loud  _ BANG _ s echoing off the walls and feet stampeding closer, and she has barely a second to throw herself on the ground under her vanity, wailing and clutching Mama's rosary in hands held protectively over her head, before her door explodes ajar again.

Fine leather shoes tromp heavily into her line of vision and pause, clearly surveying the room; she's already under the vanity and the room obviously has nowhere else to find a human adult, beyond the already open wardrobe. Elizabeth weeps louder, raises her beads higher, and the shoes hesitate before retreating back out. 

They wait for several long minutes before Mister Puzo peers out from under a feathery shawl. He looks legitimately concerned, likely the most vivid expression she's ever seen on his face, and Elizabeth gives him a watery chuckle, swiping her eyes as she straightens out from under her desk. 

"I'm a  _ performer _ ," she snips. "I'm fine." Oh, she'll revisit this in her nightmares, but the sobbing was (mostly) for show. 

He stumbles out from the tangle of frippery and helps her up, withdrawing a small black revolver from his pocket. "We shouldn't stay here, it's not safe."

"You don't say," she mutters, managing to snatch her bag from the counter as he leads her out. 

"Forgive me, Miss Colvin, but this is a critical situation and I need to pay attention," he murmurs, but a slight lopsided smile lingers at his mouth and she decides she can give him a pass.

The rest of their little jaunt passes in silence, Elizabeth pointing him to the back door and him providing cover that they don't end up needing, praise the Lord. 

There are bullet holes in the walls; she might sleep in her tiny apartment, but this is where she  _ lives _ , and each one feels like a personal wound, a violation. She's more than relieved by the time they reach the exit.

"I'm going to check outside," he informs her quietly. "You stay here." 

He slips out before she can protest, melting in with the dark shadows with practiced ease; she stays crouched by the door and fingers Mama's rosary, thinking prayers of stealth and continued life. 

When Mister Puzo returns, the gun is gone and his face is tight. "The fighting's calmed down, but we need to leave. Now."

"What's going on?" she asks, a tight, twisty feeling seizing her stomach.

"One of the gunmen must have hit an electrical box. The front half of the theater is already on fire."

Elizabeth stares in disbelief. "What? No -"

She half-turns (to do  _ what _ ?) and he reaches out, grasps her hand. " _ Elizabeth _ ," he says intently, and she blinks at him with wide eyes. "We need to leave  _ now _ ."

She lets him draw her out, lets him guide her down the alley. She can smell the smoke, she realizes - smell the smoke, and hear the roaring crackle of devouring flames, the shattering of glass and wailing of sirens. They emerge on the main road two buildings down, and then she can see the fire, too, and the black silhouettes of the men trying futilely to put out the blaze. 

She's crying, she thinks distantly. She didn't cry when she was being personally hunted, but a few flames and she's turned into a waterworks. _My p_ _ riorities might need rethinking... _

A handkerchief is pressed into her hand and a warm weight settles on her shoulders, helps to ground her. Clutching the soft lapels of Mister Puzo's coat, she inhales tobacco and cologne as she wipes fiercely at her eyes. "Thank you," Elizabeth whispers hoarsely. "I seem to say that to you quite often."

"I believe that this time  _ I  _ should be thanking  _ you _ ," he says dryly. "You saved my life."

"Hey, boss, spring cleaning's done," announces a voice, and a thin man with a long face materializes out of the darkness. 

"Very good, Nino. Let's go."

Nino looks at her curiously. "Who's the broad, boss?"

"Elizabeth Colvin," she interrupts, sticking out a hand to shake. "I'm one of the performers at the American Opera Company. Your boss was just - helping me out of the building."

He gives her a friendly nod. "Nino Rucci. It's dangerous out here, Miss Colvin, why don't you come with us?"

"Oh, I can just take the bus," she assures. Her eyes flicker to Mister Puzo, standing tall and silent at her side, watching them interact with an unfathomable expression. "I don't want to be any more trouble, and I'm sure your boss is in greater danger than I am - here -"

She starts to shrug out of his coat, already missing the warmth and its (his) comforting scent, but Mister Puzo holds out a hand and she pauses. 

"No trouble," he promises lowly. "We can drop you off no problem, Miss Colvin."

"And I can ride the bus no problem," she counters sharply, lifting her chin. "They weren't trying to kill  _ me _ . This time, I mean." 

Nino is watching the exchange with avid interest. Mister Puzo's dark eyes appear to gather in some of the flames from the Opera House and Elizabeth shivers. "Fine," he agrees stiffly. "Will you at least consent to an escort to the station?" 

"I could," she drawls, and smirks, stomach fluttering, when his eyes narrow dangerously, dark brows forming a sharp V. "I will," she amends, and threads her arm through his elbow; the sleeve of his jacket dangles inches past her hand, and she feels ridiculously feminine and cozy for being such a blotchy, sniffle-y mess. 

Despite his apparent annoyance, Mister Puzo tucks her close, wraps his coat tighter around her shoulders, and Elizabeth feels something jagged slide smoothly into place within her heart.


	4. Four

Mister Puzo tells her to keep the coat, and he doesn't need to press too hard for her to accept. 

She may or may not have slept cocooned in its comforting warmth, and when she wakes the next morning, she finds a white card tucked into the breast pocket with his name and a number and a scrawled note.

_ Call me if you're ever in need of help. _

She imagines that two near-death experiences so close together have warranted a period of peace (and that she might have to just screw up her courage and ask him to dinner in the absence of needing help), but her trial-by-occasionally-literal-fire is not yet over. 

The theater is an ashy skeleton, and the Company's director, Mister Antonov, a casualty of the shootout; several other cast members are in the hospital, flesh wounds from bullets or broken bones from the ensuing stampede. 

The American Opera Company is on an indefinite, likely permanent, hiatus. 

And when she returns to her apartment, Missus Johnson tells her that her parents left a message; she returns the call, sitting in a corner of the downstairs lobby, and listens with mounting horror as Mama sobs about Daddy's gambling and the thugs that are holding him hostage under a deadline. 

She has no incoming paycheck now, has only enough savings to cover next week's rent, but she promises a solution in a shaky voice.  _ $3000! _

The whole thing feels entirely too contrived to be coincidental - surely this amount of constant misfortune isn't normal. She may still be a fairly new resident of glorious New York, but she's not stupid - she knows that the real powers-that-be are the Mafia. Is this punishment for witnessing a murder, for turning in Johnny? Punishment for helping Mister Puzo? Has she unknowingly committed some grievous sin? Is her existence just a dumping ground for bad luck?

Regardless of the reason, there's a debt that needs to be paid.

She picks up that white card in trembling fingers and dials the number. 

"May I ask who's calling?" inquires a smooth baritone.

Elizabeth takes a shuddering breath. "It's Elizabeth - Elizabeth Colvin. Um -"

The words stick in her throat. She's never considered herself a proud person, but then she's never been in the degrading position of begging for a small fortune from a person she - rather likes. 

Or perhaps - Mister Puzo has power here, in New York. She's not sure to what extent (honestly, hasn't allowed herself to ponder what that power implies). Would it reach all the way to Goose Creek, Kentucky…?

"Miss Colvin?" 

Another deep breath. "Could we - talk somewhere?" 

"Of course," comes the immediate answer. "Salumi, at 7?"

She recognizes the name of the place - a small Italian restaurant several blocks away - and feels even more guilty at his willingness to meet her. "Salumi, at 7," she agrees with a strange mix of misery and anticipation. "I'm terribly sorry, I just - don't know who else to turn to," she finishes lamely. 

"I left my card for a reason. I'm happy to be of service, Miss Colvin."

When the time comes, they face each other across a small table tucked in a private corner, some invisible signal keeping waiters away. He is steady and solid and unperturbed as usual, and when he gestures for her to start she spills the whole sordid affair. 

"I know it was a stupid mistake, and not even  _ my  _ mistake, and I'm not trying to make excuses or anything because it  _ is  _ stupid," she sighs, burying her hands in her hair, "but - he's my  _ family _ , and I don't want my dad to die."

Mister Puzo sits deep in thought; there's a basket of rolls on the table and he shreds one methodically with long, graceful fingers. 

"...I can give you a loan," he decides. "That seems to be the least troublesome way of solving your father's predicament. I am aware of the current state of the American Opera Company, and I can help you find employment to cover repayment."

"Yes!" she agrees eagerly, leaning forward. "Please, I can do anything, factory work -"

"I have a specific job in mind." 

She stares at him, resolute, picks up her cup for a bracing sip. "Still - yes."

"You must have some idea of my - occupation," he murmurs casually, spinning his own glass between his hands and glancing at her sideways.

Elizabeth chokes, sputtering.

"Er - yes," she wheezes between coughs. "I - I might."

"And yet...you have a habit of intentionally involving yourself anyways."

"Not  _ always _ intentionally," she corrects primly (if a bit hoarsely). 

"I want to make certain you're aware of the consequences. If you continue down this path, you will not be able to just turn around and leave if you decide you want out."

She shrugs, gives him a bittersweet smile. "I was in too deep the moment that killer saw me run to you, wasn't I." She's thought a lot about this while awaiting 7 o'clock today, thought a lot about him, about them.

"...Yes," he admits. 

Squaring her shoulders, she takes a deep breath. "Well, then. Since I'm not willing to die or cut all ties and disappear somewhere across the states, I'm staying."

"Why?"

Elizabeth takes another long drink to stall, but he merely looks at her with those deep dark eyes, the roll in tiny bits on his plate, and Elizabeth sets down her glass and sets her jaw - this conversation demands honesty. 

"I - I  _ trust _ you," she admits lowly. Her cheeks are positively burning. "I - maybe you're not a  _ good _ man - or at least not a completely lawful one - but you're good to  _ me _ , and you never had to be, not once. I feel that I'm - that I'm safe." She clears her throat. "I trust you, Mister Puzo."

His face is the most unmasked it's ever been, and what she sees in it sets her heart to dancing, butterflies to swarming. She's had plenty of people admire her talent, her voice, but this is the first time anyone has ever looked at  _ her _ ,  _ herself _ , as though she were something - remarkable.

Mister Puzo nods with finality. "Deal."

He writes a check then and there, and Elizabeth clasps it to her chest tightly, allows the reality of deliverance to sink in, before tucking it carefully in her purse.

Bulk of business apparently concluded, Mister Puzo snaps his fingers and a waiter rushes over, takes their orders with professional speed and trots back to the kitchen. 

"The first detail - now that you are to be more obviously connected to me, for security's sake we ought to move you out of that disgraceful mousehole you have the audacity to call an apartment."

"Hey," she protests (though, if she's being honest, it  _ is  _ a disgraceful mousehole).

He smirks, taps those elegant fingers on the tabletop. "I have several real estate holdings that ought to fit the bill."

"You don't have to -"

"It's part of the package."

Holding two steaming plates of pasta and lasagne, the waiter returns, setting the dishes down with a flourish.

Elizabeth inhales, eyes widening. They never had money on the farm, only periods of less debt; she's never been able to break the habit of pinching her pennies, and most of her earnings she wired to Mama and Daddy anyways. She can count the amount of times she's actually eaten out on one hand; her pantry is mostly beans and bread. 

This is quite possibly the most heavenly thing she's ever seen.

Her reverie is broken by a husky chuckle. Mister Puzo is actually  _ laughing  _ at her, and she steadfastly ignores the way his eyes crinkle and gives him a haughty glare as she reverently spears a noodle smothered with marinara and cheese.

"Stop it, you, I don't get out much," she mutters, before all coherent thought is side-tracked. "Oh Lord, this is -  _ fantastic _ ."

He's still decidedly amused. "Surely you must've had dates, dinners, before."

She waves a hand, savoring another mouthful. "Dinner parties, yeah, with the Company, but those are usually just hors d'oeuvres and mingling, no one actually lets you  _ eat.  _ Heaven knows we were busy enough on the farm, and then when I started music studies, I had  _ plans, _ and there was just never anyone interesting - or interested - enough worth the time." Chewing thoughtfully, she shrugs again. "Wasn't much interest in me to begin with. Always just figured I wasn't attractive enough for the city folk."

Mister Puzo chokes suddenly on his food, sips his wine with watering eyes. "Too hot," he mutters, clears his throat. "I'm quite sure that wasn't why."

"Oh yeah? And what's your expert opinion?"

The answer comes too fast for her liking. "A combination of obliviousness on your part and intimidation on theirs."

"Obliviousness?" she splutters in outrage. " _ Intimidation _ ?" 

There's that darn smirk again. "You asked, did you not." 

"Doesn't make you right," she hisses, angrily stabbing what remains of her lasagne.

"You're not one to lack in the looks department. Whatever the reason it was  _ definitely _ not because you're unattractive." Her eyebrows skyrocket but before she can press him on what exactly  _ that  _ means the waiter reappears as if summoned.

"May I interest you in a dessert this evening?"

"Yes, we'll take the chocolate cake," Mister Puzo replies smoothly. 

"Excellent, sir."

Once the man is gone again, Elizabeth points her fork accusingly. "What did you -"

"I speak only the truth, Miss Colvin," he murmurs over the rim of his wine glass, dark eyes glittering, and she swallows against a suddenly dry throat. "Now - back to the situation at hand. I'll send Nino to pick you up at 10; he'll take you to my villa and we will review lodging options and what exactly your job will entail."

Elizabeth is thoroughly off balance but nods. Right. Yes, the job. Repayment.

"Once you've decided on a place you'll have a day or two to settle in before you need to begin your work. Will you require any assistance moving your things?"

She shakes her head. "I don't have many possessions, I'll be fine."

The cake arrives, and if possible it looks even more sinful and delicious than the lasagne. There are two slices, and Mister Puzo manages only only a few bites of his by the time Elizabeth's devoured hers (it  _ is  _ even more sinful and delicious). He declares himself to be much too full and orders a box, and since she liked it so much why doesn't she take it home? (She accepts greedily). In fact, he notes, she liked it so much she's got a bit of chocolate icing right there, on the left...

Elizabeth frowns, eyes the very white cloth napkins, and opts to just discreetly lick it off. 

"Did I get it all?" she whispers self-consciously, looking up, and Mister Puzo's very intent brown eyes have darkened to near black.

"...Yes," he says huskily, and clears his throat, straightens his jacket.

"I just didn't want to stain the napkins," Elizabeth tries to explain, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to look away that unblinking gaze.

"Very thoughtful. Shall we?" he murmurs, and offers his arm. 

She takes it without hesitation, waits for him to settle the bill, clutches close her bag with the life-saving check. "Thank you again, Mister Puzo. My dad…"

"Vittorio," he states simply. "We've just had dinner together. I don't think we're strangers any longer, do you?"

Elizabeth blushes, hand warm on his arm, tries not to smile too widely and fails miserably. "Call me Elizabeth."


	5. Chapter 5

Nino is prompt and friendly. As they drive he chatters proudly about some building he's project manager over, the tallest in the district (or at least, it will be), and Elizabeth senses a genuine respect for 'The Boss' that ratchets her opinion of the man up even farther. 

They arrive quickly, and Elizabeth finds herself impressed. Tasteful, with a kind of understated elegance, the villa seems a brick-and-mortar version of its owner. Nino gets the door and she's barely a few steps into the entryway when a dark-haired young woman dashes down a flight of stairs, laughing.

"Miss Colvin!" she cries, wrapping her in an exuberant hug.

"Wh -  _ Stella _ ?!" 

"Yes," she giggles, drawing back. "Bit different?"

Her hair is glossy and well-kept, and there's pink in her cheeks and a spark of joie de vivre in her eyes; her arms don't feel as skinny as they had.

"More than a  _ bit _ ," Elizabeth exclaims, returning the embrace. "You look wonderful!" 

"Vitto brought me home just a couple weeks after we met," Stella confides, brushing back dark bangs. "I like home  _ much  _ better. He's told me so much about you!" Her eyes widen. "Oh, that's right, you're here to see him, aren't you? I won't keep you any longer!"

She presses a quick peck to Elizabeth's cheek and darts through a side hall with a merry wave.

Nino looks surprised. "You've met Miss Stella?"

"Um - yes," she answers, recollecting her thoughts. "Last month, in the Metropolitan Hospital. I was there to visit someone and we - ran into each other."

Nino's narrow blue eyes flick down the side hall and back to Elizabeth, measuring. "Miss Stella was awfully brave, volunteering for that assignment."

"...She was there on  _ assignment _ ?"

Nino gulps, mutters something unintelligible and quickly shows her to a parlor where Mister Puzo - Vittorio - lounges nonchalantly on a sofa, cigar in hand.

"Thank you, Nino," Elizabeth says distractedly, and he tips his hat before sidling out of the room.

Vittorio sets down the cigar and stands to greet her, but Elizabeth bypasses his outstretched hand and pokes him hard in the chest, right over an intricate silver tie pin. 

"You sent your sister to - to that  _ hellhole _ on an  _ assignment _ ?" she snarls. She feels betrayed, somehow, duped and stupid and afraid, because if that's going to be  _ her  _ job now -

He blinks and his hands hover uncertainty over her shoulders for a moment before settling. "Your concern is appreciated, but Stella volunteered," he says quietly, calmly. "She was able to pull out at any time, should she decide to do so. It was a very important role that she fulfilled admirably, with no lasting harm, I assure you."

Elizabeth squints at him and crosses her arms, somewhat consoled but still feeling rather upset.

"Your nose wrinkles when you do that," Vittorio says casually, releasing her arms. "It's not very fear-inspiring."

Her jaw drops in outrage. "You - my -"

"Come, sit," he gestures to the sofa, retreats to a rolling cart loaded with drinks before she can poke him again. "Care for some refreshment?"

"No thank you," she says primly, and just to spite him takes his seat, the cushions still warm.

He brings a glass of ice water back with his wine anyways and pauses, a devilish smirk crawling across his lips. Carefully resting the cups on the coffee table, he draws himself back to his full height and begins to saunter over; despite herself Elizabeth leans back slightly in trepidation. 

He turns, undoes his jacket button, and her eyes widen in disbelief.  _ He's going to sit on her! _

He begins to lower, and she holds herself rigid until she finally cracks and scrambles out of his way with a mortified squeak and only a few inches to spare.

Vittorio sprawls back in his original spot, eyebrow raised in challenge, and Elizabeth resettles, fusses with her skirt, glares at him with every inch of visible skin flushed.

"Bite me," she growls.

He waves a careless hand. "Maybe later. Nino!"

The man sticks his head around the door as Elizabeth gives a strangled gasp. "Yeah, boss?" 

"Bring me the papers and photos I set aside about those apartments, please."

"Sure thing, boss!"

Elizabeth grapples with her rage as Vittorio grins insolently at her, sipping his wine. Nino trots back in a minute later, hesitates and eyes the two of them uneasily (he hasn't made it this far in his line of work without a healthy dose of self-preservation, and the tension in the air is palpable). 

Vittorio waves him over. "On the - table please," he finishes, sounding somewhat choked, and Elizabeth withdraws her foot, smiling sweetly as he glares at her sideways. 

Nino nods, delivers the papers, shifts awkwardly. "Can I go, boss? Only I've got a bit of a stomach ache.."

"If you need to go, go."

Evidently he does.

They eye each other for a strained heartbeat. Elizabeth finds that a good kick to his shin has alleviated most of her hard feelings, so she offers an olive branch. "So what's your opinion on these apartments?"

He huffs at her, a silent chuckle that shakes his broad shoulders, and accepts. "Any of the three would be fine. You'd be quite safe, these tenements house several members of my family. They're within walking distance of both my villa and your future place of employment, and are fully furnished."

She hums, shuffles through the stack for photographs. "Good Lord - these are very nice…"

"Of course they are," Vittorio says simply. 

"But - I've - what am I going to be  _ doing _ , to afford these? The rent must be astronomical!"

"You'll be working for me, as previously mentioned - it's all part of the package. Just choose one and we can go through the details."

She flounders for a bit until he suggests that she'd like the paint in the second. "A lovely shade of green you'd enjoy."

"How do you know I like green?" she asks, confused.

"You wear it often," he shrugs, and she does end up picking the green apartment. 

Vittorio discards the information on the other buildings and assists her with the lease agreement; soon enough he clasps his hands together and leans forward. 

"What do you know about Franesco Juliano?"

She stares at him blankly. "His name, now. Nothing else."

"Francesco Juliano is a Mafia boss who runs one of the most powerful families in New York, thanks to the lucrative trades of drug and human trafficking and the politicians in his pocket. Soon to be  _ the  _ most powerful, if he succeeds in persuading others to partner with him at the upcoming Assembly."

He hands over a photograph and Elizabeth considers a well-built, middle-aged man with a thin mustache and an oily smile, a thick cigar clenched between his teeth. "...That sounds bad."

"The power imbalance is dangerous enough, much less the consequences of flooding our streets with drugs and kidnapping children. The man has become - unstable, and needs to be removed, certainly before he manages to draw the other heads into his  _ businesses _ . Him, and Councilman Harris - Harris is, for all intents and purposes, Juliano's partner. We've also managed to acquire quite the stack of evidence regarding their atrocities, which we plan to anonymously deliver to both the new Prosecutor, Boseman, and several of the more prominent newspapers. Eliminate the two kingpins, the driving forces behind the trade - add a damning exposé and a self-righteous bloodhound - and the Juliano family and their collaborators will be brought to their knees for years."

Feeling rather overwhelmed, she shakes her head and stares at him in nervous anticipation. "Alright, but if you're going to involve the law anyways, why not just let them take care of it entirely?"

"I am the law here," Vittorio says quietly, and an odd thrill shoots up her spine. "The prosecutors, the councilmen, the police, they have only the power we choose to allow them. And as the law, I have a responsibility to my people." His dark eyes glitter with self-contained fury, a hand curls into a tight fist. "People aren't product, and drugs only destroy. I will not allow such in my city."

"Oh," she breathes, feeling very small before his smothering aura of menacing power. "But - what does this have to do with me?" 

"You are going to be the ticket," he informs her carefully. "You are young, beautiful, incredibly talented, and - mine." His voice seizes on the last word, lowers to a growl. "Juliano is so puffed up in his own arrogance, he won't be able to resist."

"Oh," Elizabeth squeaks again, staring up at him with enormous eyes and feeling quite unable to properly breathe. "I have to - kill him?" 

"No, no," he immediately assures, catching her hands, and she relaxes slightly. "I would not ask that of you. Just that you present an opportunity. Juliano has moved up the date of Assembly, and I must strike  _ now _ ...you're trembling," he murmurs, and his thumbs rub soft circles on the backs of her hands, so tiny in his. "Are you alright, Elizabeth? I understand this is a lot to take in -"

"I'm - fine," she gasps, thoroughly distracted, and fumbles for a coherent thought. "Only - what am I supposed to do?"

At this, he smiles, surprisingly soft. "Sing. The rest will be up to me."

Sing. She can do that. Certainly if there's one thing she can do, it's sing. 

Vittorio hesitates, his eyes tracing her face. "If you are uncomfortable with this, I will find another way." Regretful, but determined. He means it, she knows.

Elizabeth stares at this extraordinary man. Of course she's uncomfortable - afraid, perhaps even terrified - but she understands, truly she does. He is using whatever means he has available to stop injustice with a deadline breathing down his neck. His goals are admirable, worthy of her help; this is something far more meaningful than any mere performance at the theater...and she did promise, after all, and Colvins keep their promises. 

Despite all this, it is his willingness to bend his plans, to tempt fate for her sake, that cements her decision. If she is the means he has available -

"Use me," she says, and her voice is steady, resolute, despite her shaking hands. "Use me. I'm yours."

One pale hand releases hers, rises slowly to cup her cheek with a gentleness she can hardly feel. Suddenly daring, she presses into his touch. "Santa Madonna. Remarkable," he murmurs. "You are a remarkable woman, Elizabeth Colvin."

She gives him a cheeky, lopsided grin, with an oddly thrilling sensation of her skin shifting against his palm. "Only noticing now?"

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Oh no, I noticed rather quickly."

A knock at the door shatters the moment and Elizabeth jerks, startled. Vittorio lets her go, clears his throat. 

"Yes?" he calls, all smooth, curt business as he straightens his tie, and she clenches her hands, missing his. 

"There's some trouble at the tower site," Nino announces apologetically, hat in hands. "Alvaro's guys."

Vittorio sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ready the car. And get Emilio."

"Right away, boss!"

Elizabeth stands with Vittorio, gives a half-hearted smile. "Another problem I can sing at?"

He blinks at her and actually laughs, well and truly, a deep bark somehow both at odds with his immaculate elegance and a complement to it. "Not this one. I'm afraid this requires my personal attention. Nothing serious, a simple visit should suffice."

"Since you're familiar with Nino," he continues, "he can help you move your things to your new residence. When you're finished give me a call - this little matter should be taken care of by then, and we ought to get the shopping out of the way so you have time to settle in and prepare and any alterations can be made. There's a banquet this weekend, and you, my dear, will be the star."

"Shopping? I don't - shop." She digs through secondhand bins, but he doesn't need to know that. She doubts she's ever worn anything actually  _ new  _ in her life.

"I figured." He fetches his overcoat from a rack, spins the barrel on his revolver to check the chamber with practiced ease. "That's why Stella and I will be accompanying you."

"You're - " The mental image of this high-society man and his sister watching the country bumpkin fumble around a glittering boutique, employees likely mocking her behind false smiles, is enough to make her nauseous, and she presses her hands against her roiling stomach. "Never mind that, what am I going to sing?"

"It will be a formal occasion. I imagine you have plenty of classical songs in your repertoire. Choose a few favorites, if you're uncertain you can always run it by me. I shall see you shortly."

He strides powerfully to the door, a stalking panther in a suitcoat.

"You'd better," Elizabeth calls after him, and he pauses, glances at her over his shoulder. That devilish smirk is back

"Or what, Elizabeth Colvin?" 

There is a world of suggestion packed into those four simple words, and her face blooms beet-red. He's gone before she can form an adequate retort, a deep chuckle lingering in the air like a ghost.


	6. Six

Vittorio is right, she does quite like this shade of green. 

Her new apartment is a pastel fortress, complete with floral accents and no easy access for potential muggers/assassins. It feels safe and feminine and comfortable, and is easily the nicest place Elizabeth's ever lived. 

Nino gives her the walk-around, pointing out various fixtures and amenities and dishing out the scoop on her neighbors. Once he retreats back to the living room, making himself at home on a plush sofa, it's literally the work of minutes to arrange her paltry possessions around the rooms; her battered Bible on the vanity, toothbrush and towel in the bathroom, a week's worth of thrifted clothes taking up a scarce corner in the white wardrobe. 

When she's done, she calls the villa (she has an actual phone, in her residence) and Stella brightly assures her that they'll be over shortly. 

Nino seems to sense her growing anxiety and regales her with tales from the 'family history', so to speak. His particular brand of enthusiasm appears to led itself to everything, from tour guide to storyteller, and she's thoroughly distracted until there's a pattering knock at her new door. 

Stella bounces in, exclaiming over how lovely Elizabeth's apartment is and isn't she excited to go shopping? Vittorio seems especially severe next to the bubbly girl and just gives her a slight smile and approving nod, before clapping his gloved hands together sharply. "Shall we?"

Elizabeth nods glumly, feels as through she's walking to her own execution. Still chattering happily, Stella immediately seizes Nino and drags him out, leaving Vittorio and Elizabeth alone in abrupt silence. 

He offers his arm gallantly, but eyes her drawn face with concern. "You're really not looking forward to this, are you." 

Elizabeth bites her lip. "Not particularly. Couldn't you just pick some things out for me?"

"I want you to have a say and be comfortable with what we choose, as that will help you feel more comfortable at the banquet," he explains with a frown. "Being out in public together will also further cement our connection, which is part of the draw."

"I'm going to embarrass you," Elizabeth warns, still gnawing on her lip. "And I'm not entirely sure I'm worth all this money, ulterior motive or not."

Vittorio stops, turns, grasps her shoulders. "I very much doubt you could do anything to embarrass me - yourself, though, certainly," he teases lightly.

She moans, hides her face in her hands, and his frown deepens. 

"No one is going to be embarrassed," he promises lowly. His hands stroke down her arms. "We're all only here to help. Stella has plenty of experience with these things, just leave it all to her if it makes you feel better. And ulterior motives aside, I find myself looking forward to treating you. You are entirely worth the money for a few new dresses, Elizabeth Colvin."

Well, she's still not  _ excited _ , but most of the tension leaves her shoulders. She slumps forward, rests her head lightly on his chest. "Just dresses - I'm not worth not shoes?"

He laughs that deep bark again and draws her close for one delicious heartbeat. "Yes, I draw the line at shoes!" 

A horn honks insistently, and he steps back, straightens his jacket. "Ready?"

Yes, she finds, she is. 

And it's really not as awful as she imagined (the worst part is Stella's teasing and not-so-innocent proding about what exactly took them so long to make it out to the car). The one saleswoman who eyes Elizabeth with anything approaching disdain is given a verbal lashing by Stella, Vittorio and Nino looming behind with disapproving glares, and scurries away nearly in tears - the others are all much more friendly after that. 

Stella is a godsend, directing employees like she's conducting an orchestra; dresses in every style, color, fabric imaginable form an ever-growing rainbow pile on a nearby chair or are sentenced back to the racks. Elizabeth stands quietly next to her, mind whirling with the infinite number of swatches and samples held to her skin, and Nino flirts with anyone who looks at him twice (though Elizabeth hears him quietly inform Vittorio that he can switch back to intimidation any time, just give the signal, boss.)

And Vittorio lounges on a nearby sofa, black suit and pale skin a sharp contrast to the myriad of pinks and blues and whatever else, dark eyes watching the whole affair with an unfathomable expression. The saleswomen eye him with greedy interest (Elizabeth keeps finding her hands clenched without her knowledge) but only from afar.

Finally Stella declares they have enough to be starting with and whirls to face Elizabeth. "Which one do you want to try on first?" she asks eagerly, clapping her hands, and Elizabeth feels coffee-dark eyes bore into her back.

_ What does one wear to attract an unstable sociopath?  _ Stepping forward hesitantly, she withdraws a ruffly number in eye-watering pink.  _ It would draw attention, at least… _

"No," she mutters, and Stella immediately summons an attendant to return it. 

She sorts through the pile slowly, discreetly taking a moment here and there to stroke the different textures and marveling at the small fortune contained in this small heap alone.

Her outfits with the American Opera Company hadn't been nearly as fine as these - those had been built for functionality, for lightening-fast costume changes, for economy. Built to  _ look  _ fancy from the seats, not necessarily actually  _ be  _ fancy. She'd had one old evening gown borrowed from a castmate for whatever after-parties she couldn't attend in costume, and she's fairly certain that the employees here would have tossed it in the trash if it dared darken their doorstep.

The first dress she actually tries on is floor-length in shades of green and black and silver, with feathers and fur and pearls and a gauzy cape that drapes behind. Stella shoos away the offering clerk and helps Elizabeth herself, whispering directions to get the skirt to lay correctly and adjusting the drape of the accompanying hair clip. 

"Oh, you look  _ lovely _ !" she finally declares, eyes sparkling. Her grin is infectious and Elizabeth actually giggles with her. She really doesn't know Stella very much at all, she thinks, at least not things like her favorite color or dessert, but she genuinely likes her anyways,  _ wants  _ to get to know those things. 

Or, she amends, flushing furiously as Stella waggles her eyebrows and mentions how excited Vitto will be to see her in this dress, she  _ sometimes  _ likes Stella.

(She does hope Vittorio likes it - likes her.)

Stella makes her wait while she announces their exit, flourishing dramatically, then grasps her hands and draws her out. The saleswomen make polite (and somewhat surprised) exclamations, Nino lets out an admiring whistle, and Vittorio - Vittorio stares, his eyes doing that (terribly unfair) thing where they darken to an impossible brown-black. 

Then Stella is turning her around to face the array of tall mirrors, guiding her onto the little platform in front, and she gasps, stares open-mouthed.

She's felt beautiful before, even in her mended secondhand clothes, but she feels -  _ otherworldly  _ in this. Fingering the delicate beadwork that forms flowers on the top, she suddenly giggles and strikes a pose, much to Stella's delight. 

In the mirror she sees Vittorio reflected, his eyes following the swoop of the feathers in her hair down the sweep of her gown and flicking back up to her face.

"Keep it," he murmurs. "Not for the banquet, I think, but keep it."

"Oh." Elizabeth deflates slightly, smooths down the bow at her waist. It seems appropriate enough for an audience with God, but - "It's not good enough?" 

"That's not what I said," he protests vaguely. "Try another."

So she does - and another, and another, until the man finally okays a glittery sleeveless dress of gold and silver and champagne. 

Elizabeth twirls, watches the lace overlay flare out and the silver thread sparkle in the light. (She might actually be enjoying herself now). 

She slips off her heels and hops off the platform, follows Stella back to the dressing room. "Are we finished, then?"

Stella gasps in mock outrage. "Oh, goodness no! We've chosen your formal wear - but what about your everyday outfits?"

"I  _ have _ clothes for everyday," Elizabeth objects as they emerge, Stella shoving the gown into Nino's arms to take to the counter. "Perfectly fine clothes that have served me perfectly well -"

"Oh darling…" Stella shakes her head in disappointment, loops her arm through Elizabeth's and proceeds to bodily march her out the door. "You're part of the Puzo family, now! And besides, I think we're friends, don't you? Which reminds me -" She stops and clings to Elizabeth in a tight hug. "I haven't properly thanked you yet, for - the hospital." The last two words are whispered. "It was an awful place, and you were very kind - the kindest, besides Vitto. I felt like a person again, even if only for a moment. And the nurses even left me mostly alone afterwards. I think they were frightened of you!"

The hospital, the nurses. Elizabeth grimaces, hugs her back. She thinks a quick prayer for forgiveness up to heaven - love your neighbor, Jesus said, but sometimes it's awfully hard. "I would've taken you out with me, if I could've."

"I know." A last squeeze and Stella steps away, pulls her vivacious smile back onto her face and links their arms again. "Now! I don't want to talk about that horrid place any longer. Where shall we go for lunch?"


	7. Seven

The freedom to choose her own program is exciting - and rather daunting, especially because she doesn't know her audience.

People that came to the theater came to see opera - they wanted opera - so that had never before been a problem. And those that did not like opera tended to  _ really  _ not like opera.

So the question remained - what would a murderous sadist, hobbies including drug dealing and human trafficking, enjoy listening to? 

Elizabeth was primarily classically trained, but the Company had employed a wide range of styles for vocal exercises, and she had enough natural talent and vocal range to make picking up other genres easy enough. In the end, she selected several contemporary popular tunes and operatic numbers each, ones that she felt might appeal to some aspect of the target's psyche, and phoned Vittorio for a consultation.

He had business this morning, he informed her, but would clear the afternoon, and Elizabeth spent the time until then pacing and practicing as quietly as possible for the sake of her neighbors. The prospect of performing for people she actually knew and liked (who she wanted to impress) was both thrilling and slightly terrifying - while she could not force anyone to actually enjoy her music, if there was one thing she could do well with any certainty, it was sing. 

Enjoying the crisp fall weather, she'd refused a car in favor of walking - autumn had fully arrived within the last several weeks - and grounding herself some. Nino appears the second she leaves the complex and tips his hat, grinning. 

"Looks like we're both heading the same way," he says cheerfully, and Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

"What a coincidence."

"I know, right? What are the odds."

"I am completely capable of walking by myself."

Nino shrugs. "The boss has total faith in you, doll. It's the other people he's concerned with. This part of town is under control, but Juliano's been pushing his luck lately and the boss doesn't want to take chances."

Well, she does like Nino, and she'll take a walking companion over possible kidnapping and/or death, so with good grace she accepts the gesture as a token of care. And it really is a nice stroll anyways, red maple leaves starting to fall in the streets and her friend pointing out random bits of trivia. 

When they arrive Nino escorts her back to the same parlor she'd been in before. Stella is there, excited and perched on the edge of an armchair, and so is Vittorio, setting a stack of vinyls next to a record player.

"I took the liberty of procuring recordings of the accompaniments of the songs you listed," he announces carelessly.

"Oh, thank you - and I appreciate the concern, by the way, truly I do." She points a thumb over her shoulder at Nino. "Next time, though, I would like to be asked, or at least informed, before you just send over a handler."

He raises his eyebrows at her, and she lifts her chin, squares her shoulders to squeeze out an extra inch or two of height - Stella looks between them with avid interest. She's sure he's not used to being corrected or demanded of, but while she may understand the practical need for a bodyguard, she refuses to be treated like a child and manhandled into it. He can ask her properly like a civilized person, and she can give him her acquiescence like a smart one. This is a perfectly reasonable request, thank you -

"Fine," he growls, scowling. "Forgive me for trying to assure your safety -"

"Are you sure you two don't want this to be a -  _ private  _ rehearsal?" Stella coos, and though the tips of his ears redden he doesn't look away.

" _ Stella _ -"

"Oh no, I'm looking forward to hearing your opinion, too," Elizabeth says hastily.

The girl smiles smugly, settles into her chair. "If you say so…"

Elizabeth clears her throat, fiddles with her threadbare coat (her new wardrobe won't be arriving for a few more days - most things were oversized and alterations required). "Um, anyways, as I mentioned earlier, I'm just not sure how to tailor things to Mister Juliano's preference…"

Vittorio sneers. "He fancies himself sophisticated, a man of taste - encourage that, but I wouldn't push his self-perception too far. Perhaps two classical numbers and a few modern hits in between." 

"Right then...alright, let's begin." She breathes deeply, closes her eyes, reaches for the well in her soul where music lives. "The one by Pasek and Paul, if you please…"

Vittorio nods, starts the player. 

The record scratches to life, and Elizabeth opens her eyes and sings.

Once the last melancholy note trails delicately into silence, she sinks slowly into an elegant curtsey, every movement precise and controlled. 

Breathless quiet reigns in the heartbeat between completion and applause, a microsecond within which, if the artist has done their job correctly, the audience returns to reality. Elizabeth feels powerful, untouchable, fearless, the euphoria of a powerful performance singing in her veins - singing has always made her feel as if she could walk through fire unscathed. 

She rises gracefully, locks eyes with Vittorio. His are almost black, near to scorching in their intensity, and a fierce triumph rises from her belly. She knows the answer even as she asks the question. 

"Think it will catch his attention?"

_ Has it caught yours? _

"I think," he says slowly, rising from his seat and pouring her a glass of water, "that you will bring the entire audience to their knees."

As he passes her the cup his fingers brush hers, lingering ever so slightly. " _ Exquisite _ ," he breathes, barely loud enough for her to hear. 

Stella claps, the moment shatters. Elizabeth takes a hasty gulp of water. "Oh, Elizabeth, that was  _ stunning _ !"

She huffs a laugh, returns her glass, acknowledges the applause with a silly bow. She does not miss how Vittorio retreats, unblinking, taking a leisurely sip over the mark of her lipstick before replacing it on the cart.

Shrugging off her coat, suddenly rather hot, she clears her throat, clasps her hands. "Next I was thinking -"

Vittorio raises a hand and she stops, confused.

"If you put half as much thought and preparation into the rest of your set, you will be astounding. I find I'd like to be awed with everyone else."

She blinks, put off-balance but touched by his faith. "Oh. Well, I'd still like to practice before this weekend, could I borrow the records and the player? And maybe an empty room here? Only, I don't want to disturb my neighbors…"

He snorts. "I doubt anyone could call you a disturbance. But you are more than welcome to rehearse here, if you'd prefer."

Clicking his fingers, he turns to the door as Nino enters with a small wooden box. "I had one more matter to discuss with you - while you are not going to be assassinating anyone, I would feel much more comfortable knowing you had the means to defend yourself should the need arise. If you'll accept?" he asks pointedly.

Humming in pretend thought, Elizabeth taps a finger on her chin, and Vittorio's eyes narrow dangerously. She relents and rolls her eyes. "Of course."

In the box is a handgun, the smallest she's ever seen. It's almost cute.

"If you'll come with me to the back, I can teach you," he continues, and she tries, she really does, because she knows he means well, but a giggle sneaks out despite herself.

Affronted, he stops. 

"Oh, bless your heart - I'm a dirt-poor, only-child country girl from backwater Kentucky. I've known how to shoot since I could hold a gun," she chuckles, allowing her drawl to become more pronounced that she usually lets it be. "If you couldn't buy dinner, which was often, you shot it. Most of the time that was me, Mama and Daddy being busy with the farm. And I can skin what I catch, too..."

Vittorio makes to withdraw, but under a surge of guilt she grabs his hand before he can get far, holds it tightly. "You are very thoughtful, to take such care for me, and I'll gladly keep the gun to keep myself safe. I wasn't laughing at  _ you _ , it's just - I can't remember  _ not  _ knowing how, and it just seemed so silly," she finished lamely, biting her lip. "I'm grateful, truly I am, and I'm sorry I offended you."

He shakes his head ruefully, but he's eyeing her with a newfound interest she's only just noticing. "Heh. I apologize for underestimating you. You - keep surprising me." 

"Um. Thanks?"

Vittorio smirks. "You're welcome, sharpshooter."

"Oh, for God's sake, Vitto, just  _ kiss  _ -"

"Stella, I  _ swear  _ -"

"Oh no, he's  _ swearing  _ -"

  
" _ Stella _ !"


	8. Eight

Who knew banquets required as much preparation as an opening-day production? 

Although, Elizabeth muses, she really oughtn't be surprised - this is going to be a big performance, after all. Her biggest, since most plays aren't hinging on literal homicide. 

Stella is insistent on doing her hair and makeup and helping her get dressed, and having lots of time to do so, so Elizabeth arrives bright and early at the villa. 

By the time morning is done, the sheer amount of stuff on her face is almost maddening, but the end effect is dramatic. She looks like an exaggerated painting of herself - it's not like stage makeup, which is just there to make you more visible for the audience. She looks unreal, like one of the porcelain figurines Stella has lined up on a shelf.

Her skin is glowing and flawless, her eyes sharply outlined in black so they look even larger and their green more vibrant, and are framed by thick, curled lashes. Her lids shimmer with a silver glitter that catches the light every time she blinks. Tripping to her shoulders, her hair bounces in light waves, and her cheeks carry the barest hint of a blush over dark link lips.

Simultaneously fierce and feminine. A goddess of war paying a visit to her worshippers.

"Stella," she breathes, "You are a bona fide  _ artist _ . This is incredible!"

Stella smiles, capping various powders and creams with a self-satisfied air. "I can't sing worth a lick, Miss Virtuoso, but I can paint a face better than anyone I know. Right, let's order up some lunch - you can practice eating carefully and I can touch up anything that needs it after."

Stella grabs a blanket from the bed and they eat lunch in her room, Elizabeth getting a crash course in both proper dining etiquette and attracting the male gaze.

"Good Lord, there's a fancy way to cut meat? You rich people really are above the rest of us."

"Yes, yes we are. Now, when you walk, use your hips - and remember, if Vitto asks you didn't hear if from me -"

Eventually Stella declares her ready, helps her into her dress so she can get accustomed to moving in it, and sends her downstairs. "I've got these lovely little cushions we can tuck in your heels to make them more comfortable, I just need to find them first - here, I'll keep the shoes and get them sorted, you go down to the parlor, I know Vitto wanted to go over the plan once we were done -"

Elizabeth stumbles down the stairs - the dress is too long without the right shoes - and to the parlor. Nino is at the cracked door; his eyes widen appreciatively and he gives an admiring whistle. 

"You sure clean up nice, Miss Colvin."

She rolls her eyes. "Gee, thanks." 

There's no real heat behind it, but he blushes anyways. "Er, I mean -"

"It's alright, Nino - it's all Stella's handiwork anyways, isn't she fantastic?" 

"I'll say, you could be the Queen of Sheba -"

"What's Stella's handiwork?" The door opens, and there is Vittorio, looking slightly irritated at the delay.

Elizabeth flushes automatically, thinking of Stella's earlier list of 'advice', and avoids his eyes while she composes herself. "Um, me. I am, that is." Takes a deep breath, brushes a curl behind her ear. "What do you think? Suitable bait?"

When she looks up (from under her eyelashes, Method 6, as instructed), Vittorio's face is blank, but his hands are white-knuckled around the edge of the door and his eyes - Good Lord, if she were any more vain she'd be preening. She could strike a match from that gaze.

"...A very stunning carrot," he agrees dryly. "Come, we need to go over a few details before tonight."

A large, warm hand splays carefully against the skin of the small of her back and leads her in. 

"Our groundwork has been successful; one of my men, Leonard, is undercover in Juliano's family. He will be one of the bouncers at the entrance of the banquet tonight, which is how we're managing to smuggle in your gun past the body checks. You'll hide it in the bathroom -"

Elizabeth is doing her level best not to trip, but once they've reached the sofa she lets down her guard and her foot promptly catches on the hem of her gown.

Vittorio reaches instinctively for her as she yelps, but the reflexive movement ends up lurching her into his chest and sending them both toppling onto the cushions.

Elizabeth's head spins. 

Both hands still holding tightly to her waist, he is close enough that she can smell him, feel his chest move and his breath puff across her forehead, see her reflection in his coffee-dark eyes. 

He is silent, staring up at her. 

It is surreal, and spellbinding, and the most intimate experience she's ever had.

She doesn't want to move, doesn't want to even breathe, but is also filled with a restless urge to do  _ something  _ -

"Hello," she breathes. And immediately winces.  _ Oof _ .

A chuckle rumbles under her fingers.

"Hello," he murmurs, "Elizabeth."

Her reflection looks fascinated, nervous, excited -

"I've got your shoes!"

Vittorio snarls, but sits upright, gently sets her next to him. His fingers linger at her waist, withdraw reluctantly.

"Once all this is done," he promises lowly. "Once this is done."

Elizabeth blinks at him wide-eyed, hands twisting in her skirt, and disappointment and anticipation tie themselves into knots in her stomach. "Once this is done - what?"

"Once this is done - firstly, I'm going to take you to dinner.  _ Alone _ ," he mutters as Stella prances through the door, holding aloft her cushioned heels. "Is this acceptable?"

She wants to duck her head, wants to stare into his eyes forever. "I'd love that."

Stella smirks at them both, passes over the shoes to Elizabeth. "Well, well, well -"

"As I said," Vittorio interrupts with exasperated affection, straightening his coat; still sniggering, Stella rolls her eyes and throws herself onto a cushy armchair. "You will hide the gun in the bathroom, behind the toilet, once several others have already made trips."

"But what if someone who's not supposed to finds it?"

He raises an eyebrow, half-smiles. "Do  _ you _ often go nosing around behind public toilets?"

"...Shut up. You were saying?"

"After that, mingle, draw attention - though I'm sure you won't have any problem with that. Following the cocktail hour will be your program, then dinner and dancing. Once you're off the stage, Juliano will come to you."

Elizabeth almost bites her lip, remembers her lipstick and sighs instead. "How are you so certain?"

"He is not so cautious as he used to be, nor as sane. Recent successes have convinced him of his own invincibility and his right to power, to  _ own  _ things. Remember when we first discussed the job? You will be a bright new star - someone else's - and he will not be able to resist. He will imagine himself entitled to you and do everything in his ability to make it so. Believe me - he will come. Leonard, as one of his bodyguards once the doors are locked, will be watching closely, as will I and my men. The moment he takes you somewhere private," his mouth twists, as though the words taste foul, and his hands clench. "Marcello will be there, and Juliano will cease to be a problem."

"Who's Marcello?"

"You haven't met him," Stella says quietly. "His single mother was a prostitute who got murdered. After that, he and his siblings were taken into the family. He lost two brothers to overdose on Juliano's drugs and a sister to his underground brothel."

"He volunteered," Vittorio says simply. "I could not refuse."

The deeper meaning to the words sinks like an anchor into her belly. A man with obvious motivation, so no further investigation takes place; a man with nothing to lose, to take the fall. 

Despite herself, tears prickle at her eyes, and she thinks a prayer on his behalf up to heaven. "Poor soul...what happens after Juliano is - gone?"

"I'll find you."

"Okay." Deep breaths. Fights back her tears - can't ruin Stella's masterpiece. Brushes out the wrinkles her hands have left in her skirts. "Well, then. Simple enough." 

"You are capable," Vittorio states, and there is iron certainty in his voice. Its weight settles, steadies her. 

The fine clock on the mantle chimes once, twice, five times.

"I need to go change," Vittorio announces, standing. "Stella - we'll see you later tonight."

Stella nods solemnly. "Good luck, brother. Elizabeth, let me help you with that thigh holster…"

Promptly at 5:30 Vittorio descends the stairs, offers his arm, and they head out to the car. "What, no more tripping?"

She rolls her eyes, hits him with her other hand. "It was the  _ shoes _ , you obnoxious man. I wasn't wearing tall enough shoes, so I stepped on the edge. I'm not a hazard!"

"If you insist," he murmurs politely, handing her into the back seat. She can see his lips twitching, though, and gives him a haughty sniff. 

  
"I'm not going to dignify your baseless conjectures with a response," she says arrogantly to the car at large. "Besides -  _ you  _ are the reason we actually fell, if I recall correctly…"


	9. Nine

At 5:45 they pull in front of a lavishly decorated event center and join the line of attendees waiting to be cleared for admittance. 

The atmosphere is a double-edged sword of merriment and distrust. Weaponless or not, so many ambitious, powerful people in one location doesn't make for a relaxing evening.

Elizabeth takes a deep breath, safe to speak freely within the protective circle of Vittorio's men. "Could you introduce me as Liz?"

Vittorio gives her a considering look. "I suppose. Why?"

Elizabeth is her given Christian name, the name her parents gave her, the name the priest and her husband will say when she gets married, the name that will be written on her tombstone. She is not Liz, or, God forbid, Lizzy. 

But she does not want to be Elizabeth to a man, a monster, such as Francesco Juliano. Does not want his lips on her name.

She tries to explain all this, and isn't sure how well she succeeds, but Vittorio seems to understand anyways.

"You can be Liz," he agrees softly. "To him."

Impulsively, Elizabeth hugs him, wraps her arms around his middle and presses her face (mindful of her makeup) lightly into his chest, the constant silver tie pin cold against her forehead. He smells like tobacco and cologne, just like the jacket she still sleeps with and wears around her apartment when she's cold. 

He is solid. Safe.

His arms circle her shoulders, one of his hands carefully cradles her head, and she sighs, tension melting. 

"Alright. Let's go catch ourselves a bad guy," she mumbles into his shirt. "I'm going to want chocolate afterwards, just so you're aware."

"Then I shall get you all the chocolate you desire."

"Excellent." She pulls back, and notices she's caused a stir. Half the nearby faces beyond their guard are either studying them with open curiosity, or are so determinedly  _ not  _ looking at them that they might as well be gawking. "Oops."

"All part of your appeal," Vittorio assures her. He wraps a possessive arm around her waist, smirks at the onlookers. "They're all wondering how a man like me got a woman like you, and how exactly they can steal you away. The more unobtainable you seem, the more tempted they'll be to try, for if I've managed to catch you, why not they?"

He's right - behind the casual interest, many of them are eyeing her with something close to greed. She forces a smile.

"Your 'friends' are pigs, Vittorio," she says through gritted teeth, tucking herself in closer to his side. 

"Most of them are, yes."

When they make it to the front, Vittorio casually maneuvers her to the outside man, a fierce-looking fellow with blonde hair who gives her a surreptitious wink as he pats her down. The process is uncomfortable, despite his professionalism, and there is a heartbeat of blind terror where his hands pass over the little pistol on her leg, but he sends her in without comment and Vittorio appears shortly after. 

The next hour is a whirlwind of faces and glittering lights and fake laughter. Elizabeth sips from a dainty crystal flute, shakes hands, smiles, tries to calculate how many years the cost of this party could sustain the farm; and Vittorio sings her praises to anyone with ears to hear, like a truly besotted partner. 

They do draw attention, as he'd expected - from what she gathers, Vittorio keeps his personal and business lives very separate, so her presence alone is worthy of interest and rumor-mongering. 

And nearly everyone here has come dressed to be noticed - which, among so many like-minded people, does the exact opposite. She'd been worried they would appear underdressed, since the majority of the gowns in that boutique had been so bright and sparkly, but Elizabeth's simple cream-and-silver gown, and Vittorio's elegant black and burgundy, further separate them from the crowd. 

If anything, their plan is working  _ too  _ well, because about halfway through the cocktail hour the crowd parts like the Red Sea and a man emerges. 

She recognizes him instantly - a handsome, well-built middle-aged man with shiny slicked hair and a thick cigar clenched between his teeth - though the photo didn't quite manage to convey the manic glint in his eye. 

"Vitto," Francesco Juliano roars. "Good to see you! And who are you, dollface? Are you Vitto's little virtuoso I've heard so much about?" 

Leering, he extends a hand, and when she takes it his grip borders on painful. 

Elizabeth hadn't been expecting to interact with him so quickly, and scrambles for a response.  _ Unobtainable _ , she thinks as Vittorio introduces her with a stiff sort of politeness.  _ The more unobtainable you appear to be, the more tempted they are. _

Well, two birds with one stone - she hasn't managed to escape to the washroom yet.

"Hmm, yes, that's me," she responds in a bored manner, eyes drifting vaguely around the extravagant ballroom as though it's the least impressive thing she's ever seen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go powder my nose, darling."

She withdraws, pats Vittorio's sleeve and turns away, and a meaty hand wraps itself around her arm. 

This time his strength is bruising. Her heart leaps into her throat, races wildly. She stares at that hand, and distantly hears Juliano growl, "I haven't introduced myself yet. Don't you want to know my name, baby?"

Eluzabeth forces herself to inhale and raises her eyes as she does. She sees Vittorio, tight as a coiled spring and radiating rage, not looking at Juliano but looking at her, waiting for a signal, and she knows that what happens next is entirely in her hands.

_ She is capable.  _

Right, then. Doesn't she want to know his name, he says.

Elizabeth summons every ounce of disdain she can muster, glares, and slowly uncurls Juliano's fingers. "Not particularly, sugar," she purrs, and as his lecherous smirk drops in shock she saunters slowly away, swaying her hips (Method 3,  as instructed).

It's a genuine God-given miracle they're so close to the bathroom. Wishing desperately she had Mama's rosary, she ignores any and all attempts to get her attention from other partygoers (lest she vomit on them) and makes it to sanctuary without incident. 

She locks the door and picks up her skirts to keep them clean, slides the gun into the shadows between the tiled wall and the dusty porcelain - if she stops moving, the tightly-controlled ball of panic in her chest will explode loose, and she can't have that. Business first, breakdown later. She can process events afterwards. 

Provided she's still alive to do so, of course.

Gun safely ensconced, she stands, performs a few of the stage fright exercises taught at school, sends a few prayers to the Lord and every saint she can think of. Washes her hands. Compels herself to paste on a smile, open the door. 

She is going to make Vittorio buy her so. much. chocolate. 

The moment she rejoins the throng, there is Vittorio, looking like any other put-upon man waiting for his girl. Elizabeth greets him with a coy smile, snuggles close under his shoulder, draws strength from his unflappable presence, and they continue making the rounds. 

"You," he says conversationally, "are the most frightening woman I have ever met. I used to think no one could surpass Stella, but I stand corrected."

"I thought that might be more - ensnaring," Elizabeth admits vaguely. 

"You thought right," he agrees, and he looks at her sideways, allows her to see his admiration. "An impressive, if risky, strategy. Is your arm alright?" 

His thumb brushes feather-light over the throbbing spot and she winces slightly.

"Tender. I'm sure it'll turn a lovely purple. But I've had worse falling out of trees - I'll be fine."

"Brave girl," he murmurs quietly. "They'll be announcing you soon, it's nearly seven - do you need anything to eat or drink?"

"I'll gladly take some water, thank you. Abject terror does tend to dry one's throat."

She feels his side vibrate with the barest chuckle and nearly smiles, but then she catches a flash of a pin-striped tawny jacket and a navy bow-tie, a cigar and a thin mustache, and the urge flees. 

Juliano haunts them to the bar, around the room; he does not try to approach them again, but she feels his eyes burning ever-present on her back and the itch grows nearly unbearable by the time she's summoned backstage. 

"I would wish you luck, but you hardly need it," Vittorio muses. "You will astound them all. Perhaps instead..."

He bends, takes her hand, brushes a kiss over the back of it like some old-fashioned prince, and his dark eyes set her soul alight.

"A reminder of my promise. Once all of this is done, you and I are going to dinner, and after that, well…we'll see."

He definitely doesn't miss her full-body shiver, judging by his smirk. 

_ Insufferable man _ !

Well, maybe she doesn't have much  _ personal  _ experience, per say, but she can still play the game. 

Suddenly daring, she stands on her tiptoes, tugs on his tie to draw him close, which he allows as much from surprise as anything else.

"I look forward to it," she whispers, and, before she can think too much, presses a quick kiss of her own to his cheek. This might not be polite society, exactly, but she's still broken a taboo by embracing him so closely in public earlier, so there's not much sense in holding back (right?). 

Her lipstick leaves a pink outline on his skin ( _ sorry, Stella _ ), and as she turns to dart after the gesturing attendant she spies his ears turning red. She comes very, very close to giggling like a schoolgirl, but stepping backstage brings an automatic return to professionalism.

Right now she has a madman - an audience - to woo. 

And woo them she does. The notes come easily, effortlessly, spill from her soul, and very quickly nothing exists but the song. The music is wonderfully, gloriously  _ alive,  _ and she is but the vessel...

Elizabeth returns to herself abruptly at silence-shattering applause. This audience adds cheers, hoots, whistles that were missing from the crowds at the opera - while the occasion itself might be formal, many of the people here are not, and don't bother restraining themselves to polite clapping. 

Acknowledging their approval with a breathless smile, Elizabeth curtseys, sinks low and dips her head, retreats from the stage, comes back for an encore... 

By the time she's released, she feels like a wrung-out, if elated, sponge, and she allows herself to sag against a wall for a moment before re-entering the ballroom. 

Vittorio is there at the door to lead her to their table, the band gearing up for soft dinner music and white-uniformed waiters lining up with covered trays. He lowers his ironclad composure enough for her to see underneath - pride and wonder and desire, a look as though she hangs the stars, and she beams at him.

"I'm glad I waited - the full effect was mesmerizing. You were truly in your element." 

"Oh, I've missed it - not exactly what I was used to, with the Company, but a proper production all the same!"

He smiles, simply because she's smiling, and his large hand is warm and calloused on her back. If she could freeze this moment -

"Liz, baby, you are  _ phenomenal. _ "

It's like a balloon in her chest pops, and Elizabeth turns to Juliano, feeling somewhat jarred. "Um - thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed the performance."

"Oh, I enjoyed it  _ immensely _ ," he growls suggestively around that enormous cigar, his eyes roving up and down before fixating on the lower half of her face - on her mouth. Her dress is more than appropriate, but she finds herself wishing desperately for a coat, a sweater, anything. "Do you do -  _ private  _ concerts?"

"I do," Elizabeth responds blithely, baring her teeth in a fake grin.  _ Ugh _ . "But I doubt you could afford me." 

Juliano throws his head back, cackles as though she's made some kind of hilarious joke. Vittorio makes an odd sort of strangled noise.

"Oh, baby. There's  _ nothing  _ I can't afford. Why don't you two come sit at my table, and we can discuss it further…?"

He grips her wrist and pulls, and they - she - have no choice but to follow. Vittorio is seated across from them, Elizabeth to Juliano's left, and the meal that follows is nothing less than excruciating. 

The man alternates between leering at parts of her he has no business looking at, whispering things in her ear that make her pray forgiveness just for hearing them, and giving 'innocent' touches that make her yearn for a good bath. 

On the upside, Vittorio was correct - she doesn't need to put any further effort into this, because Juliano is convinced that there's no possible way she could be unattracted to him and has apparently made her mind up for her. She could straight-up tell him to go to hell, and he would find some way to spin the response, would likely even find it seductive. 

Juliano gets more and more drunk on bootlegged alcohol and his own ego, Vittorio slices his steak more and more vigorously, Elizabeth grows more and more desperate for an end, and finally - 

Juliano reaches for her dress, she closes her eyes in revulsion and panic, and a glass shatters on the floor. The change in Juliano's mood is instant.

"Was that you, Vitto?" he snarls.

_ Praise the Lord.  _ Elizabeth cracks her eyes open, but Vittorio's face is blank as he adjusts his tie. 

"You were moving around so much that you bumped the table."

Juliano's eyes are narrowed. "Funny, I didn't feel it. Just having a bit of fun, old chum -"

"With  _ my _ date -"

"Aw, she likes it, don't you, doll," he rumbles, leaning in and placing a hand on her thigh. That mad spark in his gaze burns brighter, and Elizabeth stays stock-still, not daring to move, which Juliano takes as full-hearted, enthusiastic consent. "See?"

"I don't -" starts Vittorio, and the grip on her leg is suddenly crushing as Juliano's other hand curls around her neck to play with her hair. Startled by the pain, she whimpers, and Vittorio cuts off immediately, going white, and the air positively  _ crackles  _ with rage.

"Tell him you like it, Liz," hisses an oblivious Juliano. "Tell him you like  _ me _ more."

"I -" No way in  _ hell _ . "L-Let's go somewhere else. Somewhere - private."

She stares wide-eyed at Vittorio - prays that Marcello has picked up the gun, she hasn't dared to so much as glance at the washrooms since she dropped it off - and he gives her the barest of nods, still looking positively murderous. 

Juliano chortles, shoves back his chair and yanks her up. His men look uncertainly between him and Vittorio, and one begins to stand. 

The force of the blow across his face sends him reeling to the floor, a meaty  _ SMACK  _ slicing through the background music and low buzz of conversation. 

The room stills briefly before sound resumes, the other occupants determining no immediate danger to themselves, and Elizabeth stares at the downed man in shock.

"What are you,  _ stupid _ ?!" rages Juliano, and he slams a heavy kick into the hapless man's ribs. "I don't want you to  _ come _ , I want you to keep poor lonely Vitto here  _ company _ !"

The man looks up and nods hastily, crimson blood trickling from his mouth. "Sorry, boss," he mumbles thickly. 

Juliano begins to drag her away, the incident already out of mind, and she follows, feeling somewhat numb. 

_ This psychopath is going to murder her. _

Hoping for courage, she fumbles for the reasoning behind her role in this crackpot plan - but it's hard to grasp the relative concepts of justice and prevention of future wrongs when one's own life is in actual peril. 

_ Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord - _

Juliano tows her down the hall - she scrambles at a trot to keep up and her shoulder still feels wrenched from the socket - and to the first unlocked closet he finds, slams her against the shelves, looms over her and draws close.

Panic breaks loose, runs shrieking through her brain, and she shoves him roughly, tries to kick him away. She can't get enough air into her lungs to breathe, much less scream, and the man snarls, raises a hand to strike her -

The only sign of the open door is the sudden return of light. Startled, they both pause, blink at the intruder. 

He's a boy, not yet a man, perhaps 17, with a polite look on his face, mussed brown hair and the uniform of a stagehand. 

Juliano turns fully, puffs himself up to an even broader, taller figure, growls, "Leave  _ now  _ -"

The boy shakes his head, and suddenly he's holding a gun, her gun, drawn and held steady at the level of Juliano's eyes. "Better duck, miss."

She does immediately, starts to curl into a little ball at the foot of the shelves among buckets and boxes, and before she is even fully on the ground, before Juliano can begin whatever word he was drawing breath to shout, there is a sudden  _ BANG. _

The sound echoes loudly in such a confined space, and her head and ears are ringing such that Elizabeth can barely register the belated  _ thump  _ of a body. 

Dark red trickles past her shoes.

"You stay right there, miss. Don't you look."

_ Look at what  _ -

  
There's a second  _ BANG.  _ And another thump.


	10. Ten

Elizabeth listens, and Elizabeth stays. 

She doesn't move, and she doesn't look, and she doesn't register that the disbelieving, strangled screaming is hers until someone carefully pulls her to her feet, leads her out of the closet and over against a wall. 

She clicks her jaw shut, but the sound continues in her head. 

There's a commotion around, but she doesn't dare open her eyes to see, shies away from reasoning what for. 

A presence settles at her side, and she flinches automatically as a weight drapes over her shoulders and a gentle hand cups her cheek, warm and strong and calloused. 

"Elizabeth - Elizabeth, love, I'm here."

Vittorio's voice is concerned, careful, smooth and soothing as velvet.  Hesitating fingers pause, wait for permission she's barely aware of giving, before drifting almost imperceptibly across her face, down her shoulders and arms, seeking new hurts. "Elizabeth, I need you to tell me where - if - he hurt you."

"Nothing - _i_ _rreparable."_ Holding herself tightly in check, she does not lean into his touch - not yet, at least, she has a question first - the only coherent thought rattling around in her skull. The effort is astronomical, but she has to ask - he is a good man, if a hard one, she doesn't believe he would - but she has to ask -

"Did you…"

His thumb tenderly brushes away a stray tear, gently combs her disheveled hair away from her face. He knows immediately what she's referring to. "No. I did not. And I was unaware that this is what he intended...Marcello made his choice quietly, of his own will."

"Promise?" she croaks, and all she can see in her mind's eye are the gangly limbs of a still-growing teenager, a nice face and polite smile, eyes that looked dead while his body still breathed. She hears an echo of him telling her to duck, to stay, not to look - feels the most overwhelming tidal wave of grief approach with unstoppable force.

"I give you my word," he says solemnly, and she breaks. 

Vittorio scoops her onto his lap, cradles her against his chest while she sobs; stands and carries them out to the car, settles them onto the seat. She is unaware of anything except his constant heartbeat and the scent that is so intrinsically  _ him  _ and the utter misery that is drowning her. 

Eventually he carries her again, settles them onto a seat somewhere - she can't find the energy to care where - and she huddles into him, a hand around his tie to make sure he doesn't leave her, for if he does she'll be set adrift and lost.

Her sobs are slowing into deep, bone-shuddering sighs, the misery ebbing away into a numb emptiness.

"I thought I would be happy," she finally rasps, stroking the intricate swirls on his tie pin with an absent-minded finger. "But instead I feel - hollow."

His hands, stilled once she began to speak, resume rubbing small circles into her skin, hold her tighter. 

"I know, darling. I know."

Elizabeth presses her face into the fabric over his heart, and surrenders to sleep. 

When she wakes, the parlor at the villa is bright from the sun streaming in through the windows; she is drained, stiff, her face sticky from dried tears. Comforting tobacco and cologne fill her nose, and she goes to wrap herself further around her - Vittorio's - jacket, but there's a body inside this one and she freezes, jerking fully alert. 

"Hello," Vittorio murmurs in amusement, somehow even dignified while yawning and mussed from a night in an armchair. 

"I'm ever so sorry, I thought you were just the one I sleep with," she squeaks, wriggling away slightly to create some semblance of propriety. 

His hands let her move only reluctantly, but he's distracted. "You sleep with the one I gave you?"

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

"Every night. Though it's been getting colder, so I usually sleep  _ in  _ it now, as opposed to just with," she confesses, twisting bedraggled curls through her fingers and carefully avoiding his eyes. She's not  _ embarrassed _ , per say, and heaven knows this man already knows more about her than even Mama and Daddy, but she feels unusually raw, vulnerable, this morning.

"Really," he drawls, and she darts a glance at him to see dark eyes, a slow wicked smirk. "How flattering to know I've been keeping you warm at night -"

"Oh, shut up, you," she hisses, but the banter drains tension from her shoulders even as she flushes. 

Vittorio laughs, releases one hand and strokes the red on her cheeks with a feather-light finger. "You are a very bizarre, endearing mix of oppositional qualities. Bold and shy, strong and soft, confident and unsure...it's all very unpredictable, even for me, and I am an excellent judge of other people." 

"Flatterer. How very humble of you," she sniffs, pressing her lips together to fight a pleased smile. 

He notices anyways and laughs again, that deliciously genuine, deep bark, and draws her into an embrace. 

"In fact," he murmurs into her hair, "I think I could very well love you, Elizabeth Colvin. And I would quite like to find out, if you would allow me the honor."

How can a body contain such enormous feelings? Her chest feels stretched to bursting, swimming with a joy so incandescent it really ought to be impossible to feel short of heaven. "There's nothing I'd like more," she promises, beaming, and she means every word and she needs to do  _ something  _ with all this emotion or she's going to  _ explode - _

Elizabeth draws back just enough to seize his face in her hands and kiss him. 

Vittorio responds immediately, groans and tilts his head so they fit better and presses her closer against his chest, moves his lips against hers in movements she tries her best to copy. 

Kissing - and more particularly, kissing  _ him  _ \- is an experience more enjoyable than she'd dared to dream, and she happily abandons all other thought in exchange for several long minutes of learning about it. 

Finally her neck begins to protest being stretched in such a way, and she eases away unwillingly. Vittorio allows her with a protesting growl, eyes following her mouth with a hunger that makes her belly burn. 

"Sorry," she breathes, lips tingling, and  _ oh is she sorry.  _ "I'm just really stiff from last night -"

If there is anything that could dampen her spirits now, it would be last night. She swallows, withdraws her hands (somehow they wound up tangled in his wonderfully thick hair), tries desperately to regain the previous mood. "Um - so, my first  _ real _ kiss, really. Was I any good?"

Vittorio quirks an eyebrow, and she shudders as the hand at her waist caresses her hip. "'Any good'? You are marvelous, woman. And a very fast learner…"

He licks his lips slowly, takes satisfaction in the fascinated way she follows with her eyes, then sighs, suddenly serious. "Truly, Elizabeth, you were marvelous," he says, and she knows he's not talking about kissing anymore. "You were very brave. I'm surprised you still want me, frankly, after putting you through that."

She scoffs, but she still squeezes her eyes shut against memories she wishes she didn't have, clenches her fists in her skirt to anchor herself. "Oh, please. It was my choice, thank you, I knew going in what my role was. And I hardly did anything, honestly, just let things happen to me. And I don't really want to talk about it." 

_ How can something she barely had a part in weigh so heavily? _

"Alright," Vittorio agrees softly. "When you're ready, then. But you mustn't bury it, or it will eat your soul alive."

Elizabeth doubts she'll ever be 'ready' but supposes he's right, no matter how desperately she wishes otherwise...well, if she's going to do it she's going to do it now. Get it over and done so she can move forward.

"...Fine," she concedes, biting her lip. "But could I kiss you again, first? For courage, you know."

"Miss Colvin, you can kiss me anytime you'd like."

So she does. 

And in between, she slowly, haltingly, untangles herself, Vittorio listening in avid silence, until the shadows no longer feel quite so dark.

"Of course, we can't do anything very public, but I would like to have a memorial for Marcello in the back gardens," he suggests quietly once she's done. 

" _ Yes _ , that would be wonderful - he deserves that much, at least. But it's not over, is it," she sighs, leaning her head tiredly against his shoulder. "There's still the Councilman, right?"

Vittorio presses a kiss to her forehead, and she feels his lips curl into a triumphant half-smile. "Oh, I imagine we're nearly there. My men dropped off copies of all our reconnaissance on his and Juliano's connection to all of 24th Street. They'll all be in a frenzy to print special editions before their competitors, and once the truth is out…" 

"Did you know, his daughter attended the same university as me? She always spoke so highly of him, he pushed her to be a pilot...I don't understand how a person can be both a loving family man and such a despicable criminal."

Vittorio shrugs. "Power and money can drive people to depths previously thought unimaginable. I expect it was little things at first. Perhaps he even justified them as being  _ for _ his family. I do pity them - in all our research they were completely unaware. But  _ nothing _ can excuse the man himself. Whatever the means, justice will be served."

She nods - she's familiar with the concept. The strong arm of the law doesn't reach very far in the backwater of Goose Creek, Kentucky - they and their neighbors had often needed to solve their own problems, in whichever way was necessary to keep surviving. She had thought things would be different here in New York, but she'd been proven largely WRONG. If anything, the city cops are even worse, for instead of merely not having a presence, many of them are actively complicit, or at the least compliant, with the bad guys.

"I really am glad I could help," she says, and she means it. Regardless of how long the spectre lingers, she's done a good thing, a right thing - and she will not regret it.

Vittorio hums approvingly, dips his head to kiss her again, and her stomach rumbles loudly enough that he stops, gives a rueful smile.

"I've been a terrible host - Stella will have my head. Why don't we see about breakfast - or lunch, rather - and getting cleaned up? I need to check in with Nino, anyways..."

A bath sounds lovely and food even more so, but the threat of outside human interaction is enough to make her want to hide in the parlor forever. 

He reads the way her nose crinkles and leads her to a guest room himself, promising undisturbance and a few things of Stella's to be brought down for her to borrow. 

Elizabeth throws herself into the somewhat daunting task of feeling human again. She opens the windows for fresh air, takes the most luxurious bath she's ever had in her life - and if her Bible isn't here to read she can still pray, and even though she doesn't quite feel like singing she can manage a hum. Stella's things are a size too big but comfortable anyways, and if pragmatism won't allow her to toss her tainted party dress in the bin it's at least tucked away out of sight. When she's finished, she feels clean and presentable and mostly herself once more, ready to emerge back into society. Her skin is pink and raw in places where Juliano had touched her, but the act of scrubbing has done wonders to begin erasing the sensation of phantom fingers. 

When she opens the door, Stella is sitting in the hall, reading a magazine. She lurches up and envelopes Elizabeth in a hug, whispering heartfelt thanks and gladness that she's back safely; Elizabeth holds her back and wonders again what exactly Stella's own undercover mission had involved. 

They walk downstairs to the kitchen arm-in-arm in companionable silence, and once there Stella twirls on a swiveling barstool and rambles about projected fashion trends and her opinions thereof while Elizabeth devours a sandwich, listening to the chatter with a grateful ear. Vittorio appears halfway through (Elizabeth's heart swells at the sight of him) and it turns out that things really might be over after all.

"Councilman Harris is dead," he announces in satisfaction, plucking an apple from the fruit bowl on the table. "He left a note confessing to everything. The earliest paper with the exposé just hit the streets half an hour ago, the man must have panicked."

The topic of suicide unsettles Elizabeth only slightly, and Stella heaves a dramatically disappointed sigh but smiles, a sharp thing full of vindication and dark satisfaction. "It would have served him right to rot in a cell forever, witnessing his life burn down in flames, but I suppose I'll take his death."

Vittorio nods, sits. "Heh. Agreed, sister." He takes a crisp bite of his apple, then pats his lap and tilts his head invitingly, and Elizabeth happily trades her chair for a more comfortable seat. Vittorio strokes the newly irritated skin around her wrists, and quietly offers to massage some lotion in once she's finished with her food, which she gratefully accepts.

Stella watches with wide eyes, a muffled squeal escaping clasped hands. "Oh,  _ finally _ , Vitto - I thought I was going to  _ die  _ from waiting - I'll let you two have some  _ alone time _ , let me know when you've settled the wedding date!"

"Incorrigible," Vittorio mutters, flushing pinkly as Stella darts still crowing from the room, but there's a pleased half-smile pulling up a corner of his lips as she darts away. "She really likes you, you know."

"Good - because I quite like her, too."

"Now, Elizabeth Colvin," he murmurs, dipping his head close. "I believe I promised you dinner…"

"And chocolate," she reminds him, lifting hers to meet him (remnants of her sandwich quite forgotten and discarded on the table).

"Heh, yes, and chocolate. 'All the chocolate you desired', I think I said?"

"Just so."

"Well, we have a few hours til dinnertime. What should we do in the meantime?"

"I can think of a few things."

"Hmm, so can I," he purrs, and when he kisses her, Elizabeth swears she can taste stars, and promises, and the future.


End file.
